


Woven Strands

by Ourania



Category: Pyre (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-13 23:35:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11770806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ourania/pseuds/Ourania
Summary: Each Nightwing wears a braided piece of colourful yarn. There is no unity to them, but each is worn with care. The hands that created them are what bind them all together.





	1. No Deserter

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm dipping my toes in this game and have to say, I really love it. This will a series of drabbles with each one focusing on a different character and their interactions with the Reader. I don't have a set schedule, but will try to do update once a week if possible. Hope you enjoy!

A familiar scent catches in the air, heavy with spice and burning cedar. The Reader, a small and frail thing that might appear to break if touched, lifts her head and sniffs at the air, seeing the smoke drifting from the other side of the wagon. It clouds the starless sky that hangs above them. Her fingers pause, toying with the piece of twisted yarn resting in her lap.

She is almost grateful for the empty sky. The stars bring forth a sense of urgency, and it dwells deep within her gut, sickening her. Odd how comforting the dark can be to her now, as opposed to the stars she used to admire. She closes her eyes, head leaning back, hitting the wood of the blackwagon. The smell lingers closer now.

It’s hard to place. Hedwyn is the cook, that much she is certain, as none can coax forth such bold smells from the group’s limited food supply. She inhales the scent and coughs. The spice burns, too potent to take in one breath; likely it is meant to be savoured in shorter gulps.

Cinnamon, that is what she tastes. It overpowers the duller flavours that permeate. Her lips pull back in a sour motion. What concoction is Hedwyn _making?_   If this is to be their meal, she does not think it will be one to fill their stomachs. Truthfully, it may empty them.

The Reader allows her eyes to reopen and settle back on the braided material in her hands. She tugs at the loose strands near the end, three pieces of yarn, all various shades of red, and braids them over. There is not much to be found in the Downside; what exists, is often old and worn out. If something manages to keep in good condition, she has yet to see it. The yarn was a hassle to procure, costing her a few closely kept baubles that survived the descent from the Commonwealth, but Falcon Ron had several bundles in decent condition he was willing to trade her. Her wrist feels oddly cold as she recalls removing the brass bangle from it. The yarn bundles now remain in the wagon, hidden in the small chest that keeps what little she has to call her own.

The braided yarn is halfway done. The Reader takes care with the activity, braiding and weaving with slow movements. Her hands shake, struggling to hold the yarn properly. A small frown sneaks forth in the shadows. She has little stamina in her; all she does must be planned out or she may exhaust herself.

 _Is this worth it?_ Her mind wanders towards the night sky. The braided material is left alone again. She takes hold of her wrist with her other hand, fingers flexing as the shaking worsens. Small breaks allow the work to progress.

A sharp bell rings in the distance. The Reader turns her head out of habit, recognizing the sound coming from inside the wagon. The meal is ready then. She expels a heavy breath; she thought there would be more time, but it seems not. She allows her hand to drop over her stomach and shuts her eyes from the world. Hunger doesn’t come to her tonight.

Footsteps pass around her, some heavy, some light. They belong to the other members of their mismatched group. Most scatter during the free moments, but meals draw them together quicker than honey does with flies. She used to smile at that, hiding it beneath the hood of her cloak when the others conversed, and enjoy the peace it brought her. But there are times when she requires solace and silence.

The Reader takes hold of the yarn braid after a few moments and resumes the weaving. Her eyes keep closed. Her hands have done this enough times to remember the action without needing to view it.

She will complete this. She promised she would.

The moon lifts higher in the air and faint laughter echoes in the forest clearing. The Reader places it as Pamitha; the Harp’s voice has a sweetness to it that betrays her appearance, quick wit masking a gentler soul yearning for forgiveness. The Reader stares at the braid, now nearing its completion, and she wills forth a smile.

It requires a few more twists, but the braid is complete. She knots together the ends of the ruby yarn. Her hands lift the braided yarn into the sky and inspects it in the moonlight. A long stretch of yarn, the width able to wrap around her wrist twice over, glistens in the moon. One strand of yarn has specks of a shimmering material infused in it that allows such a faint glow to emit from it.

The Reader’s smile widens. Finally, she’s finished the task that’s consumed most of her days, but she regrets not a thing. Her eyes close. It’s worth the effort, she finds.

“Ah, so this is where you wandered to, my friend,” a warming voice intrudes the silence built around the Reader and unsettles her. A memory flashes to mind— _b_ _urning hands that strike at her leg, forcing it to bend in a way it shouldn’t, the punishment for her efforts trying to escape the ones who brand her as criminal_ —and she pales. Her body jerks to the side, braided yarn forgotten in favour of instinct. It falls down in the short grass. She nearly stumbles off the stool, but a hand catches her arm and steadies her, countering the reaction with soft touches. It’s a reminder she is here, present.

It’s a habit her body has created from the times before she met Hedwyn and the others. In the quiet where she snuck into corners and hid in the dark crawl space, she dared to read words that were outlawed. Her mind needed to be alert. Always alert.

The Reader can’t quite forgo it. Sometimes, she will still feel as if she is trapped above, before those times. In the quiet, she almost forgets.  

“Apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you.” The Reader looks up, pushing her hood down. Hedwyn stands at her side, a small smile pulling at his lips, pushing forth with regret. She holds the edge of her cloak with shaking hands. She hopes he won’t see.

A slow nod emerges with time aimed towards Hedwyn. He takes it as forgiveness and drops the tension from his shoulders. The Reader pulls her hands in closer, tucking them under the cloak. A faint scent drifts to her nose—cinnamon mixed with berries and ash. Her nose crinkles, and she searches, seeing the small wooden bowl in Hedwyn’s hand, hidden by the thick cloak he wears for comfort.

Her fingers move, pointing towards the bowl with clear effort. “Food?”

Hedwyn’s eyes jump from her hand to his own, and he lifts the bowl up, revealing a brown mixture that reminds her of porridge. “Uh, yes. Thought you might be hungry.”

“Not...hungry.” Her reply is short, as it always it. She wishes she could weave together words like she used to, speak full poems with a single breath as she loved, but her throat took damage from the fall and when she pushes forth a long sentence, nothing comes.

“Well, alright then. I will leave this here if you change your mind,” Hedwyn says and places the bowl down on the spare stool beside her. She doesn’t look to it.

The Reader takes in a slow, calculated breath. It can be hard for her, at times, to converse with others. She was never a fluttering butterfly in the Commonwealth, keeping to herself most days while others would talk for hours around her, forcing her into a shrinking violet. The lack of a true voice has only made that realization strike her harder.

“Would you care for company?” Hedwyn draws her mind back to the present, standing in the same position, patient as his nature inclines. He keeps a neutral expression, but she can see his lips twitch; he is uncertain. The Reader is unknown to the Nightwings, an enigma more so than Sandalwood might seem. But Hedwyn, his presence is a welcome one. Jodariel is kind, if stoic but always distant, and Rukey is loud and chatty, always waiting for her to keep up with him when she cannot, and she adores them both, but Hedwyn emits a calm aura that settles her nerves.

“Please,” she whispers and he grabs another stool from the side, scooting next to her. Her eyes scan the empty sky, dark and alluring, and she reaches her hand out without knowing.

Hedwyn watches her trace out the moon. “No stars tonight.”

“Empty,” she tells him.

“Indeed,” he agrees and brings his hands together, blowing warm air between them. “A bit cold, but better than our previous voyage, that ocean. Can we avoid passing it again? I’d appreciate that, my friend.” A short chuckles leaves his lips as does a faint cloud of air.

The Reader shakes her head, mirth flickering over her eyes. “Stars guide...not...I.”

“Well, may the Scribes smite me down, but I fear the stars may be purposely guiding my stomach to sickness.”

“Poor...you.”

“For one who speaks so little, your tongue is quite pointed my friend,” Hedwyn teases, gaze set on the half moon. The Reader falls silent, hand retreating back to cover her throat. Her fingers spread over scarred skin. She swallows and feels a lump forming where the gash originated.

“I...wish,” she murmurs and shudders in the cold air. It hadn’t been a bother before when she sat near the fire, but here, she is cast in moonlight, which offers no warmth.

A heaviness sets over her shoulders, unexpected, and the Reader lifts her chin, finding a thick cloak of red and orange draped over her body. Hedwyn’s hands close the familiar bronze clasp around her neck. It spills down over her small frame, swallowing her whole. She feels as if she’s grown to Jodariel’s size, exuding heat, but lacking the sheer force required for it.

She blinks, hands taking her brown curls out from the inside of the additional layer of cloth. Her confusion is guided to Hedwyn. “Why?”

Hedwyn can only reply in laughter. “Surely you already know, my friend. You are not suited to this cold, despite your insistence. Your shivers rattle your teeth enough for all to hear.” And on that fact, he is not wrong. The Reader turns away, a flash of red flushing her cheeks.

“That is...fair.” Hedwyn smiles, and laughs louder, drawing out a faint giggle from the Reader. She smooths out the wrinkles from his cloak as his laughter overtakes the silence. For a time, she can forget her worries here.

“You are a Nightwing, like the rest. You need not keep here alone.” Hedwyn’s eyes glow, face pointed to the moon. The Reader keeps quiet but allows the words to seep in.

Her feet shuffle closer together to keep warm, but pass over something small and discarded. It makes her pause. She glances down and catches a shimmer of red in the pale light. A soundless gasp leaves her. She had nearly forgotten it.

She bends over, reaching her arm out from the comfort of the the cloaks, brushing over grass and dirt to find the braided yarn. It returns to her palm, sullied by earth, but new. The Reader frees her other arm from the warming cocoon, with great reluctance on her part, but she pushes through the cold. Fingers grasp the edge of Hedwyn’s sleeve and tug, redirecting his attention.

“He—Hedwyn?”

“Ah, yes, my friend?” He glances at her with surprise. It is rare she uses anyone’s name; her throat aches at the words she is unused to and cannot practice with the ease she once possessed.

She places her hand on his and unfurls her folded fingers, releasing the braid, and it falls in his palm. Her hand pulls away to reveal the item. In his hand, the red braid bares a faint glimmer, like the clasp he shares with Jodariel. Hedwyn runs his thumb over the braided sections with a mixture of wonder and uncertainty. “Did you...make this?”

The Reader nods once. She pushes back the two cloaks, allowing more of her body to be exposed to the night air. Her left arm pushes up the sleeve of her right arm, rolling it until it goes well past her elbow. Here now, Hedwyn states at her, eyes narrowing and then widening at the sight. He flips the braid over.

Tied around her right wrist, the Reader wears a series of braided bracelets, like the one Hedwyn holds. Each is a different set of colours and not all are made of yarn, but they hold the same precision that was applied to his.

She grins at him. “That is...a blessed braid...said to...”

“...To have been worn by the Srcibes as a way to bind them together, never to be forgotten,” Hedwyn finishes for her, seeing the coughs beginning to spur in her chest. She holds a hand to her mouth as the coughs comes and go. Hedwyn steps closer out of concern, but she waves him off.

“Fine...I’m fine,” she assures him. A moment passes, a cool breeze blowing in the trees.

The Reader holds her hands out to Hedwyn, and points at his wrist, waiting. He clues in quick enough and passes the braided bracelet to her. She ties it around his wrist. It hangs a bit looser than she hoped, but she’s pleased.

“Thank you, my friend.” Hedwyn smiles, a large and gracious one that she mirrors back to him. They stare up at the sky in silence.

The Reader once thought she would be left alone in her exile. So many of those she held close were lost with the raids and burning. She was the only to live. But here in the Downside, she is beginning to find renewed hope in the Nightwings, in the family forming.


	2. Keeping Watch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! Next up is dear Jodi, and I bumped up the rating cause there is a bit of violence in this chapter, but it's canon typical. Enjoy!

If glares could harness the power behind them, the Reader is certain Jodariel’s would turn the bushes to ash in mere seconds. The sun beats down with a relentless pulse characteristic of the Joumer Valley. The Reader plucks another barbed left from the plant and avoids the blistering sunlight. A steady pile grows in her lap of various leaves and berries she can’t name.

Her finger passes over each leaf. A mental count is tallied and she finds the required number is still short. The Reader blows out air, hand returning to the tall, brambling plant, and tugs away a few more leaves.

“Are you nearly done?” Jodariel’s voice booms from behind. The Reader’s head shakes, but she dares not to turn it.

“Need...more,” she replies and returns to her task. Jodariel scoffs behind her, but says nothing further, crossing her arms and watching the sandy hills around them. Back in the blackwagon, when she had been reading through the Book of Rites, the Reader overheard Bertrude complaining she lacked a number of herbs that would assist in enhancing the talismans they wore in the Rites. Given there was little else to do until the next Rite, the Reader offered to procure what was needed, and somehow, Jodariel came to accompany her.

There was no asking, Jodariel appeared at her side and followed her out the blackwagon. The Reader wasn’t going to protest an additional set of hands. But now, she feels stifled, a constant pressure pushing on her shoulders, urging her to move quickly.

The last leaf is added to the pile, which now towers high. The Reader grabs the corners of the cloth in her lap and lifts them. She ties them together with ease. A small makeshift bag is formed from the blue cloth and it holds the leaves inside well enough. She holds it with one hand, her head looking back at Jodariel. A single nod indicates the task is finished.

“Good, let us go to the next area,” Jodariel says, though it comes across more as an order. She tosses her cloak back and begins to walk ahead.

The Reader places her palm upon the burning sand and pushes up. Her arm struggles, unable to support her weight. However she is determined, and with enough sheer will, she is able to stand. She takes in a few short breaths, eyes flickering to Jodariel.

The taller woman is only a few feet ahead, her steps slow, almost purposely. The Reader jogs ahead to keep in pace with her. The cloth bag is looped around her belt. Small sparks of pain jolt in her left leg as it limps along. The Reader bites her lip to stem her words. It’s not suited to such prolonged use, and yet, the Reader ignores the pain and keeps moving. It will pass.

The pair walk under the blistering heat in silence. Jodariel leads, following the paths she’s remembered from years of exile. The Reader follows behind, metal rings jingling as she moves. The rings carry small cloth bags attached to the belt around her waist. It’s a bit large, a leftover borrowed from Hedwyn, but it serves the purpose.

She will need to give some of the improvised bags to Jodariel soon. With the barbed leaves, she now has five spread out across the rings. She cannot carry more. She dares to glimpse at Jodariel; the Demon does not acknowledge her, always looking forward, never back. The Reader lowers her head and pulls her hood down.

Jodariel at times scares her, she can admit such. There is such distance in her eyes. The Reader admires the pragmatic manner she displays in most situations. It braces the uncertainty with harsh truths, and while they are frightening, it helps to pave the way to possibilities. Jodariel is always prepared and able to wield a commanding presence. The Reader wishes she could more present, not reclined to the side, out of sight and thought. It never sits well in her stomach.

The Reader weighs in the silence, wanting to erase it. “Jodariel…?”

“Yes?” Jodariel is curt, head trained ahead.

“Um,” the Reader stammers; she hadn’t thought this far. She takes hold of a portion of her cloak and pulls it closer. “About...the meals…”

“What of it?” Jodariel rolls her shoulders. The motion makes her shadow enlarge and swallow the Reader whole. She squeaks.

“Maybe...we can eat...something,” the Reader struggles to string the words together. “Something...sweeter?”

Jodariel halts. The Reader stumbles to avoid colliding with her, unable to see her expression. The metal rings clatter against each other. Jodariel extends her arm, pointing towards a small alcove ahead of them. It is surrounded by low ridges and holds several bushes full of berries.

“We are here Reader. Go and retrieve the berries, we haven’t time to waste.” Jodariel ends the conversation before it can continue. It leaves an impression of exasperation. The Reader nods nervously and shuffles forth.

“...Make sure to take extra. Our meals lack variety, it would not hurt to have a few more options,” Jodariel adds in when the Reader is near the alcove entrance.

The Reader smiles and scampers along. Even if her presence brings forth fear, the Reader knows a kind soul is resting beneath the plated armour Jodariel wears. It just takes coaxing.

The alcove is wide as the Reader enters it. The entrance is narrow, but after stepping through the space, it breaks out and expands into a large area carved out from stone. Low ridges and cliff surround it entirely, but the Reader notices them with a single glance; her focus in on the cluster of dry bushes where she can gather the remaining berries. Jodariel keeps watch from the entrance, a fair distance away.

Small berries, a strange shade of blue, are plucked from the bush. The Reader gathers handfuls instead of a brief amount. Her mind flutters with possible meals to be made with the fruit. A pile grows on the red cloth left on the ground. She grabs at the berries, quicker and quicker. She fails to hear the footsteps gathering above her.  

A rock tumbles down from one of the ridges, bouncing against the walls and falling at the Reader’s feet. Her hands freeze. She lifts her head up, staring at the tops of the ridge that circles the alcove. Nothing is visible, but she ties the cloth ends together regardless.

She stands, slowly, and knots the bag to her belt. “Jodi…?”

No sounds respond to her. The Reader backs away, one foot, then another. Skittering noises echo in the alcove, more than before. She can’t place them. Her eyes dart all over and she sees movement, blurry shapes jumping around.

The Reader swallows. The shapes are distinct, like the same creatures that Mae fought against when they first found her hiding on the blackwagon. A low howl catches in the air.

She doesn’t take the time to think, she runs.

“J-Jo...Jodi!” The Reader calls ahead, but the entrance is far and sound cannot carry to it. The howls erupt behind her and follow her down. She stumbles, her leg struggling to keep in pace. She pushes harder and gets halfway through before her leg gives away.

It feels as if time slows. The Reader falls into the sand, and it catches in all the holes on her. She is dragged down. Air escapes her lungs and she cannot breathe. The Howlers drop down in search of food.

“J-Jodi,” the Reader whimpers, head jerking left and right in search of the shadows. Hisses echo in the low ridges above her. She claws at the sand, trying to move away.

Her head turns and she sees the Howlers, a steady growing number of them climbing down. They surround her.

“Jo...J-Jodariel!” A scream breaks out from her throat, and it burns, it burns, but the volume is necessary. She scrambles back, her good leg kicking at the ground, pushing her further back from the reach of the ridges. The pack of Howlers edge closer, sharp fangs biting at air. The Reader tries to scream again but nothing comes.

The Howlers lurch forward. Darkened fur, stained with dirt and soot leap into view and breach the distance. The Reader slides back but she smacks into a stone wall. There is nowhere left to go.

She lifts her arm and shuts her eyes. A piercing force tears through the fabric of her sleeve—it breaks skin and muscle, digging in deep. This produces a mangled cry of pain from the Reader. She kicks at air.

The teeth burrow farther into her injured arm. She can’t shake it off. They stick like leeches, drawing out her energy. She swats at the one holding her arm. Another sinks its fangs into her thigh and all she can see is red spilling out.

They won’t let her go alive.

“ _Leave her!_ ” Pounding footsteps erupt from behind her, then in front of her. Everything is spinning. The Readers feels the teeth torn away from her body. It makes her whine. She rapidly blinks in surprise. A massive form stands over her, smacking away the Howlers. They are tiny compared to the anger spewing from Jodariel. It’s startling.

The Reader watches for a few moments. She knows Jodariel used to be a member of the military, but has only seen her technique used in the Rites. Here, Jodariel is the opposite; calm and stoic approach is replaced with fury and sheer force.

She swings her arms hard and fast. The small Howlers are struck with such power they crumple upon impact. The Reader trembles against the rock wall.

It feels like an eternity passes between them, Jodariel striking the Howlers, the Reader letting tears fall down, but only a few minutes truly fade. At the end, the remaining Howlers have retreated and several bodies live unconscious around them. The Reader won’t accept them being anything else.  

“It...is done.” Jodariel’s voice echoes in the Reader’s ear, hollow and unbalanced. She watches the shoulders of the hulking form lift and fall. There is an irregularity. The Reader can see it, feeling it in herself when her lungs strain her breathing.

Jodariel stands up, hulking size imposing the low cliffs of the alcove. Her head turns to the Reader. Red spots stain her cheeks and hair, starkingly bright against her ashen skin, not right. It’s far, but her expression is clear to the Reader. Her swollen eyes lift with relief. She sways, and her body collapses on stone and sand. A cloud of dust blows from the fallen body.

The Reader inhales sharply.

“...Jodi!”

* * *

Darkness is what first greets Jodariel, that and a throbbing ache in her skull.

She drops her hand over her face and groans. Sleep is not unwelcome, but she’s had too much of it, and needs to rid her head of this pain. Her eyes open, with great resistance. The ceiling of the blackwagon comes into focus. A warm hue casts over the space belonging to a setting sun.

 _What happened?_ Jodariel sits up and pain pricks at her arms. She winces, lifting one arm to see it wrapped with bandages. The other wears the same. She swings her legs around and now realizes she is sitting in the Reader’s bed.

But why would she be here? The last moment she recalls involved the Reader and searching for plants for Bertrude. Then, static.

“What were we... _Howlers._ ”Jodariels emits a low, almost guttural growl. The marks on her arms were created by those vermin when they attacked the small Reader. It angered her so and the Reader, she...

“Reader!” Jodariel now surges to her feet and the room sways around her. The small one’s condition is unknown to her; she needs to ensure her safety. But her body drags her back down. She can’t move, can’t be there to protect. She’s the one left on the side now.

It angers her, a huff escaping her lips. Jodariel closes her eyes to calm down and voices filter in through the open window. A sharp pitch laughs, she narrows her eyes; the Harp is out there.

“...Worry not, Reader darling. Jodariel is a stubborn one. I am certain she will awaken soon and we will all have to work again. Enjoy the prolonged peace.” Jodariel strains to hear the conversation.

“But...I’m at...fault,” the Reader’s voice comes into focus and there is a sadness that carries in it. Jodariel frowns, but is glad to know she is well.

“Now now, you can’t control how wild things act. They are just so, wild.” Pamitha counters with another short laugh. “But you did well bringing her here. Berturde says she’ll recover, so wipe those tears away. They don’t suit you.”

“I...will try.” The Reader fades away from earshot, as does the remainder of the conversation. Jodariel folds her hands together. From what she can gather, the Reader took her after she fell and brought her to the blackwagon, where she gained treatment. It’s hours from when she can last remember.

After some time, Jodariel steps away from the bed and goes to the cot pushed in the corner she’s claimed as hers. She grows restless with nothing to do, and staying bedridden is less than ideal. She tugs loose the tie holding her braid. Pale hairs spill out, wavy and uneven. She sits down on the cot, and it creaks under her weight. She grabs a brush from the shelf above and works about riding her hair of tangles. Taming hair in the Downside is no easier than in the Commonwealth.

She places the black tie on her pillow, but her fingers brush against something wooly. Her eyes narrow as she examines the item. A braided piece of yarn, knotted at the end, forms an endless loop. Jodariel lifts it to her face. The colour is muted blues with specks of red. In the low light, she finds the braid is more intricate than she perceived; it is thick, each individual braid of yarn is three strands wrapped together, and the three braids are weaved together to form the full braid of the bracelet.

It gives her pause. Jodariel sets it on her lap and recalls seeing a similar bracelet worn by Hedwyn during the most recent rite. He rubbed it over three times before that match started; he does the very same to his bronze clasp, a sign of good luck.

Her hand passes over the pillow again and now it finds a piece of paper where the bracelet was. Jodariel takes it and squints at the letters. She’s been learning a bit from the Reader, enough to know letters and a few small words.

“ _T_ _hank you_ ,” she reads aloud, and has to check it twice to ensure she is reading it properly.

A small smile graces her lips. She slides the bracelet over her wrist and twists it around a few times. Her other hand grasps the brush again, taking the loose strands in her hand with the bracelet. She returns to combing her hair.

Perhaps she will bother Hedwyn to include something sweet in their next meal.


End file.
